Safe
by AristaHolmes
Summary: Somehow, no matter what they see or face, or what arguments they have, Sherlock and John always feel safe with each other. Inspired by the BEAUTIFUL artwork created by LiviaCarcia  at Livejournal & Tumblr... SH/JW


**A/N: This fic was inspired by the AMAZINGLY creative and talented Livia Carcia over on LiveJournal & Tumblr. Her artwork rivals Picasso and Da Vinci and her current 'Series' of sketches based around Sleep are truly beautiful to behold. I recommend ALL her art, but the particular piece that inspired me can be found at the following link (or go to the link in my profile).**

**TUMBLR: http {colon} {forward slash x2} livia-carica {dot} tumblr {dot} com**

**LIVEJOURNAL: http** {colon} {forward slash x2}** livia-carica **{dot}** livejournal **{dot}** com**** {forward slash}**** 21527 **{dot}** html  
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**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Sherlock. If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting things.

**Safe**

The cab journey had been taken in silence, the only sound being the obnoxious lyrics streaming out of the cracking reception of the drivers radio. John was furious, and Sherlock's complex mind hadn't yet quite comprehended the events of the evening...

_It had started so simply; a run of burglaries, that would have usually been beneath the consulting detective, but desperate times meant Sherlock dived for the pathetic morsel of a case, and was almost grateful. They'd only started that morning, but by mid afternoon Sherlock had narrowed the list of suspects down to two, sending the Yard after one with instructions bordering on orders, and pursuing the second suspect himself, with John by his side. Which was when things began to spiral out of Sherlock's control. _

_Sharon Swann's profession as a private investigator meant that she had the contacts to know which shops to hit, when and how to bypass their security systems, it also meant she knew exactly when she became a suspect, and when they were coming for her. The warehouse that she used for offices had been set up like some kind of minefield; furniture piled up as obstacles, acid on door handles, and tripwires connected to various dangerous projectiles. Even Sherlock had to admit that they wouldn't have made it through without John's expertise in navigating a different type of minefield in the Afghan Deserts. Miss Swann, however, did not take kindly to being cornered, her diversions and traps bypassed, and much to Sherlock's exasperation, the woman pulled a gun on the two men as they entered her main office._

_"You think you're so damn smart Holmes! but even your brain can't stop a fucking bullet"_

_The consulting detective was aware, peripherally, of John shifting his stance. The Doctor would take the bullet if she fired, and Sherlock found himself gritting his teeth at the sheer stupidity of the situation just before his own personal brand of insanity stepped in to take control._

_"You won't shoot" he drawled, his deep voice sounding ridiculously loud in the small room, but he caught John's shoulders shift from 'tensed' to "calm" and a part of his brain mentally sighed. John trusted him far too much. _

_"You want to test that, genius?" Swann half sang, her madness almost making the consulting detective pause but as Sherlock dragged his focus from John back to her, he determinedly took two steps forward. If she pulled the trigger now she could hardly miss, and he could hear John behind him, shifting his weight anxiously. The Doctor believed his words, but all his own instincts were telling him something different, and Sherlock knew that eventually John's experience would make him look in this madwomanfs eyes and know. She was prepared to kill to get away._

_"Go ahead then" he taunted, "What exactly are you waiting for, you won't get a better shot than this? or are you really as pathetic as your burgl-"_

_The world is supposed to slow down the moment before death, give you time for your life to flash before your eyes and relive your joy's and regrets. All Sherlock remembered hearing was a series of consecutive bangs that made his ears hurt, and a spreading agony is his chest that he couldn't explain. It may have been bullets, or his heart breaking. Later he remembered thinking that he hadn't thought she'd snap that swiftly, was prepared for more taunting before she gave into desperation and fired, but in that instant, when bullet hit body, he just felt numb, wondering if John would be angry._

_He was angry, furious in fact, which was why he had filled Sharon Swann with two bullets before Sherlock had hit the floor, or the action had processed through his mind. He had stood there, in the middle of the silent office staring at the gun in his hand for too many seconds before he slid the weapon back in his pocket far too calmly, and advanced on his flatmate's prone form, lying still on the floor._

_John's breath was caught in his throat, yet Doctor Watson was cataloguing the situation. '_Gunshot wound to the chest, probably missed the heart, should have certainly hit a lung, still breathing though, barely... wait, where's the blood?'

_The Doctor knelt by Sherlock, and pulled aside the man's shirt, ripping buttons, and sending them flying in all directions in his panic, hard relief washing over him and covering him in a cold sweat when he saw the police issue bullet proof vest strapped round the lanky man. Swift, steady hands undid the strappings, loosening the pressure from the now buckled metal plates, and Sherlock coughed in a deep breath, groaning as he came round sharply, pale chest heaving in air that the damaged vest had tried to prevent._

_"What-" Sherlock paused to cough, wincing as the bruised muscles in his chest pulled tight, "What happened?" and just like that, John's fury returned like a forest fire, burning away his relief and happiness and affection at the bemusement on his flatmate's angular features_

_"What the ever-living _**fuck** _do you think happened?" John growled, almost enjoying the shock that filtered through the detective's eyes "She shot you, you complete idiot!"_

_"Did she escape?..."_

_Sherlock's eyes had already moved across the room before he'd finished his question and was taking in the two perfectly placed gunshot wounds in the chest and head on Sharon Swann, before those grey eyes returned to John's furious face_

_"Do you think for one _**bloody **_second, I'd let her get away after fucking _**shooting**_you? You're an imbecile Sherlock Holmes! Sometimes I wonder what the hell you do with that gigantic brain of yours, because you certainly don't fucking _**use **_it!" John was up and pacing as he cursed at Sherlock, still lying on the ground, his chest still bare, his silk shirt hanging from his shoulders, the buttons either missing entirely or hanging on via broken threads, and his dark hair a splayed mess as his breathing beginning to quicken. He could feel himself fighting a blush as John continued his rant, and his mind warred with itself._

_He shouldn't be finding this tiny tyrant so inexplicably attractive, but the longer John scolded him, the more Sherlock wanted to stop him with teeth and tongue, and he almost welcomed the arrival of the Yarders, before he truly embarrassed himself._

_Between Anderson and Donovan's snide comments were questions and a lecture from Lestrade about recklessness, and the commandeering of police property, and then came the questions about how the mastermind ended up dead... John announced that Sherlock would need medical attention and that Lestrade could continue the interview at a later date, and as they left the scene, John's still tensed arm around Sherlock's slim waist, the consulting detective made a mental priority note to ask Mycroft if he could clean up the mess he'd gotten his flatmate into..._

There was practically nothing a hospital could do for the severe bruising caused by the impact of the bullet, so once they'd gotten seated in the taxi, John gave the address for Baker Street and that's where they were going now. John still furious, with his heavy glare focussed out of the car window and Sherlock desperately trying to make sense of where everything went wrong, and what he could bribe Mycroft with to help get John out of suspicion with the Met. His brain was also considering, how it could have simultaneously gone so very right. John's strong hands round his waist, and the gentle surety they showed in helping his battered body get into the Taxi... well, the thought still had the ability to quicken his breathing, and Sherlock shivered in part apprehension and part cold as the chill air in the taxi, leaked through the rips in his shirt.

It was new, untested ground, and he sent a glance at John across the seat. He looked carved from stone, and the consulting detective knew this could easily turn into another of their explosive arguments; He almost craved it, to see if the Doctor's varied vocabulary drew the same... interested reaction from him, now that the adrenaline had leaked from his system.

He shifted, wincing, and felt his lips part to speak, not 100% sure what he wanted to say, when John growled at him from the other side of the cab. The Doctor's eyes were closed and his face was turned to face the opposite window, but somehow he knew exactly what Sherlock was about to do.

"Don't even think about it, you hear me? If you say one single word, I may actually do something I end up regretting" His voice was rough, tense, and unlike anything Sherlock had ever heard from the smaller man, and he felt goosebumps raise on his arms that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold London air. A nod was his only response, but John's new psychic abilities meant he knew, and something in his frame relaxed minutely. The ridiculously light-hearted radio station was the only sound in the car for the rest of the journey, as John attempted to temper his anger, and Sherlock tried to understand his reactions and the new emotions that kept creeping up on him unexpectedly.

They were both moving on auto pilot when they reached Baker Street, John paying the driver, Sherlock opening the door, granted, more slowly than usual to compensate for the bruising across his chest, painting his porcelain skin every colour from green to purple, and John hanging their coats in the hall. The two men were inside their flat with the door securely between them and the rest of the world before they began coming back to themselves.

"What the hells did you think you were doing?" John almost whispered, putting the spoon on the counter, the tea's only half made, but already forgotten and Sherlock saw that the Doctor's hands were shaking.

Checking to see if Sherlock had been alive, those same hands had been steady as a rock, but now they were trembling, and the consulting detective, for once, was speechless.

"You could have died" The questioning tone was vanishing, underneath a harder anger that needed to be vented somewhere, somehow, preferably at someone.

"I had the vest-"

"And if she'd aimed for your head!" John spun still furious eyes on Sherlock, and surprisingly the detective fell silent. It took a few long moments of that dark chasm of unnatural silence extending between them, but quite suddenly John wilted and finally seemed to _see _Sherlock.

The consulting detective stood in the middle of the living room as though he didn't quite know where he was, the painful colouring on his chest looked like a small child had been set loose with a pot of paints, and the ripped, ragged mess John had made of Sherlock's silk shirt was _**still **_hanging from Sherlock's thin frame. He was covered in grime from the warehouse floor, and John had never seen him look less perfect than he did right now, and the familiar flip of his stomach made him sigh. This messed up, imperfect creature was going to be the death of him, because despite the danger, or maybe because of it, John loved him.

Raking a hand through his hair, John sighed again and added milk to the now stewed tea, picking up his own and leaving Sherlock's on the kitchen counter. "Right then..."

The doctor cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the consulting detective, who looked totally lost and completely alone, adrift in the middle of 221B's living room and it took everything in the doctor's willpower not to cradle the tall man to him and whisper sweet, comforting nothings.

"I'm going to bed" John indulged himself, letting his eyes scan over Sherlock, evaluating "I suggest you take a hot bath, it should help ease muscle pains, and get some sleep"

They were the kindest words he could muster at the moment, his anger reduced, but still simmering beneath the surface. John couldn't remember ever being this angry with someone before in his life, and couldn't even manage a reassuring smile before he passed Sherlock and made his way upstairs to his cold bedroom.

John didn't see Sherlock's eyes close against tears that he hadn't expected, or the sudden throb of pain in his chest, that could have come from the bruise, but probably didn't. John was already upstairs by the time Sherlock moved slowly into the kitchen, tentatively picking up the tea and wincing as it pulled painfully as his injuries, and John was tucked up securely in bed by the time Sherlock had painfully peeled off his clothes, dropping them in a trail as he headed towards the bathroom and ran a hot shower, letting the water scald his skin as punishment for hurting John.

That's what he'd done. Sherlock didn't always need to be told where he'd gone wrong. John had trusted him, Sherlock had lied, and that was what John was angry about, what Sherlock couldn't understand was why John was **this** angry. The shower leant him focus, and let him cry without being seen. The tears were droplets, and the flush of his face was heat from the steaming cubicle. It was a long time before he moved, and exited, and he took his time drying every inch, scrubbing everywhere to remove every trace of the warehouse from his skin.

The case was solved. Sherlock stood before the mirror over the sink, towel wrapped round his waist and staring at the bruising still slowly spreading across his chest. The case was solved, but had he lost anyway? Had he shattered John's trust irrevocably. The thought terrified Sherlock in a way he didn't understand and he lowered his head, his thoughts swirling.

He couldn't let this end. He needed John... Needed John? He blinked at his own reflection, his lips parting in a soft gasp, and he watched his own eyes widen in astonished realisation. He did need John. Completely, for everything. For work, for comfort, for advice, and for forgiveness. A thin steel of determination thread itself through his stormy gaze and he softly padded from the glaring artificial light of the bathroom, and up the creaking stair towards John's room, his anxiety returning the closer he got to the Doctor's bedroom door.

Long fingers pushed open the door that hadn't been closed properly, and he stood in John's bedroom doorway, completely lost. As Sherlock stared at the still form of his flatmate, he wanted to crawl over to the man, curl around him, soak in his warmth and his smell and cry like he hadn't since he was a very small child. It took him longer than it should have to realise that John's eyes were open, watching him, and suddenly he couldn't move, couldn't breath. He wanted to run, afraid of whatever judgement he's find in that steady blue gaze, but he didn't.

Sherlock took one slow step into the room and then another, and another, watching John for some sign that he wasn't welcome. When Sherlock reached the edge of the bed, John kept watching for a moment before shifting over, and the consulting detective crawled under the covers, shedding the damp towel from his shower and blushing at John's quiet gasp of surprise, thankful the colouring on his cheeks couldn't be seen by the light from the hallway.

"Sherlock, what-?"

"I'm sorry"

The two whispered words silenced John and after a moment, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's trembling shoulders, and cradled the taller man as long legs tangled with his own.

"You would have taken that bullet, John, I know you would have, and I couldn't let you, couldn't let you risk your life for mine..."

"That's what I'm trained for, Sherlock" John spoke softly, calmly, accepting, "What anyone in the army is trained for, to give our lives to save people more important than us-"

"I am _**not**_more important than you!" Sherlock all but snarled, his body tensing and silencing the Doctor, "Don't you see, John? I don't know how to do... this ...without you any more"

Sherlock's frame was still trembling, even as he clung to John like a lifeline, soaking up the warmth of skin against skin. John was silent, and Sherlock pushed his face into the Doctor's chest like a child seeking comfort, so that's what John gave, despite certain parts of his body intensely interested in the fact that Sherlock was pressed against him completely naked, making John's pyjamafs tighter than they should be.

"I thought I'd lost you today... When I saw you knocked back..." John shook his head, and shifted more firmly onto his back, his left arm curled around Sherlock's back and began rubbing a soothing path up and down the detective's arm, from shoulder to elbow.

Sherlock almost purred, his body finally starting to unwind against John's, and he slipped the same arm John's fingers were tracing along around the Doctor's waist, tangling their fingers together shyly, once again glad his blush couldn't be seen in the dark, even as he heard John's breath catch in his chest as Sherlock let his arm rest across the Doctor's pelvis.

"I had the vest... if I hadn't done it, I would have lost you..."

Tensing his arms in a hug, and attempting to concentrate on the detective's words, John let Sherlock settle his head over his heart before dropping a tender kiss to Sherlock's forehead. It crossed his mind that this was new, and intimate, and he began to wonder how this would work, how would they change, but he put it aside for the morning. Right now this was about fear, and comfort and hope, and as he heard Sherlock's breathing begin to deepen, John smiled, and let his head rest back against his pillows

"I'm safe now Sherlock, we both are, together... always together" It was a breath as he fell asleep, but even in his dreams, Sherlock heard.

He always heard John. Always.


End file.
